


Go Around

by veronamay



Category: The Sentinel
Genre: Angst, Drama, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-10
Updated: 2013-05-10
Packaged: 2017-12-11 07:02:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 958
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/795207
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/veronamay/pseuds/veronamay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Blair angst, in the form of post-everything emotional confusion.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Go Around

## Go Around

by Sinistral

The Sentinel et al belongs to Pet Fly Inc, Paramount and other associated entities which aren't me. Written for pleasure, not profit. Not intended for readers under eighteen years.

Middle-of-the-night bunny attack. I should know better, really.

Please take everything herein with a grain of salt, or at least a strong drink. I'm playing a bit, and it turned out a little, um, weird.

* * *

**GO AROUND**  
by Sinistral 

Spinning our wheels, like rats in a cage, me and him together. Both of us stuck in hell-or-limbo, we don't know which and we're too scared to find out. One night; we had one awful, painful, glorious, wonderful night, and then _nothing_. Like it never even happened. Life went on and cases came up and off we went, and neither of us knowing what the other was thinking, all the time wanting things we couldn't (should) have. And all the time growing bitter from it until the whole landscape turned like week-old milk in the sun and there was nothing for it but to call it (us) quits. 

Because after all, there's nothing to stay together for now, is there? No danger, no dissertation, not a single solitary thing to keep us both in the same place at the same time besides the deep-seated, unspoken knowledge that (it's where we both belong). 

Rats in a cage, like I said. Stuck in perpetual motion, going nowhere ever. He can't go forward and I can't go back and if it goes on much longer we're both going to go postal, or break something. Probably something important. 

So here we are, in our own carefully controlled lab space, doing all the things we normally do, trying desperately to pretend that it's a normal day, except that the huge gaping holes in the bookshelves in my room scream that this is _not_ a normal day because it's all _over_ , it's gone and there's no reason for me to be here any more (except there is, I know there is, and he knows it too, but we keep going round and round and never the twain shall meet). 

I shouldn't be here. I should never have been here. Why am I still here? 

The answer to that question is suddenly vitally important, but I know if I face up to it the wheel will stop turning and we'll all fall down, and ring-a-rosy always made me dizzy. So I get up instead, off the couch where we've been pretending to watch a perfectly normal Jags game like a couple of perfectly normal friends, and I stumble into the bedroom - not my room, never mine - and grab for a bag, anything, to start packing. Illogical. Absurd. Necessary. 

Movement behind me in the doorway, and I stiffen. I know he's watching me, monitoring me like always. How funny is it that I find that a comfort now? 

"Chief." His voice sounds rusty. "What are you doing?" 

I shake my head. I can't talk; my lips are pressed tightly together so I won't talk, won't open my mouth and start spewing out all the feelings trapped inside me, spinning and spinning around in that goddamned dizzying fucking circle and he's still there, watching ... 

"Sandburg." He's coming closer, unsteady, painfully tentative where he's always been so sure. "You don't need to ... there's no need for this." His hand is hovering a bare inch from my shoulder; a half-flinch makes him draw back. "I don't want you to go." 

A bald truth, that; and I don't _want_ to go. I don't want to be anywhere but here, and the exquisite clarity of that makes me catch my breath and drop whatever useless thing I'm holding, so I can hunch over and wrap myself up the way I want him to, and howl in silence for what we almost had. 

(Circles, always circles, neverending loops and fucking curves and arcs and wouldn't my geometry teacher be proud of me now, because I finally understand the stunning simplicity of it all ...) 

I turn and face him slowly, looking him full in the face, letting everything show. He backs away and his knees hit the bed; folding, so he drops down in a heap while his eyes never leave my face and the huge glaring enormity of it all crashes in on him. 

It can't stop. It'll never stop. We can't just call it a day and go back to normality, calling this an interlude in the rest of our real lives. This _is_ our life. We're two halves of the circle, and we need to keep it whole or the whole thing's going to fall, and take us with it. 

"Blair." He nearly gasps it; and then I'm there, I'm on him and all around him and we're shaking so badly because we need this, both of us, and it can't be swept under the carpet anymore or excused as a drunken night's remedy for overactive hormones. We're doing this together, because it's the only way to stay sane. And because it feels too good, too right, to not do it anymore. 

I drape myself around him, listening to half-strangled snatches of phrases that tell me he wants it, wants us, wants everything, and something in me breaks way down inside and I feel shards of ice-cold steel tinkling, sounding faintly musical in the distance. 

I close my eyes and try to crawl inside him. Only one word comes to mind. 

"Jim." 

* * *

End Go Around by Sinistral: sinistral_@hotmail.com

Author and story notes above.

  
Disclaimer: _The Sentinel_ is owned etc. by Pet Fly, Inc. These pages and the stories on them are not meant to infringe on, nor are they endorsed by, Pet Fly, Inc. and Paramount. 


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